


For Varkelton

by duffmansean



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Other, Rape, Rape Recovery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-09
Updated: 2013-02-09
Packaged: 2017-11-28 16:33:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,194
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/676533
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/duffmansean/pseuds/duffmansean
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Set post season4, Sam and Dean are still trying to bridge the gaps in their relationship.  When a demon gets the jump on Sam, it puts an even bigger strain on the brothers' relationship.</p>
            </blockquote>





	For Varkelton

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Varkelton](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Varkelton/gifts).



> This was a plot bunny I started a long time ago, but never finished writing. This first bit was the best of what I managed, and I thought I should put it up since Varkelton loved it so very much. Completely and totally all for you, babydoll ♥

Sam let his weight fall back against the bathroom door, head lolling against the old wood. Dean's voice carried through it, accusing and concerned and asking, asking, asking. A frown formed on Sam's brow as he hollered back to leave him alone and that he just needed a shower, damn it! With weary, tired movements, Sam crossed the small distance and started the tap, effectively drowning out Dean's further inquiries.

Sam sighed as the warmth crept into the water and warmed the bones in the hand he held out to check the temperature. When it felt about right, he turned away and began to undress. He'd left the light off and he kept his back to the mirror hanging above the sink. He wasn't ready to confront his reflection right now and he was pretty sure his reflection wouldn't feel like looking at him anyway. He started with the easy stuff – his jacket and shirt. Those didn't hurt too bad. There was still a twinge of pain in his left shoulder that sent him back  _pressing up against the wall and his arm just keeps twisting and oh god the damn thing's gonna rip his arm out of its socket if It keeps twisting_  but he shut it away quickly and rolled his shoulder in an attempt to rid himself of the discomfort – as if that could help erase the stale taste of the memory in his mouth. Running his hands through his hair, thicker with dirt and old sweat, Sam blew out a huff of breath, trying to calm the panic bubbling at the back of his throat.

 _Stop it, Sam. You're not thinking about this right now. You're taking a shower. Now take your pants off and get in the damn stall_.

He swallowed back the jittery feeling, stuffed his thoughts away, and unbuttoned his jeans. He dropped his pants quickly, ignoring the dark stain that showed in stark contrast on his boxer-briefs in the dim room, and balled them up, smothering the evidence and, in turn, smothering the thoughts, the memories, the feelings,  _every_   _fucking stain_.

Kicking his clothes into a jumbled pile, Sam maneuvered his frame into the too-small shower stall. Lifting his leg hurt in more ways than one –  _in more ways than he cares to think about right now_ – and he can't help the hiss that leaks through his gritted teeth. The pain is sharp yet dull. The pinch he can live with. It's almost superficial; the torn tissue, abrasions and burns.  _Tis but a flesh wound._ But it's the blunt feeling that gets him – the internal agony racing up his spine with each movement that makes his insides want to twist and push and tighten. A fleeting worry of  _scarring, internal bleeding, infection_  ghosts across his mind before he steels himself and pushes it away with a mental flap of his hands.

Somehow, he manages to fit himself into the small stall and huddle under the warm spray and god, does it feel good. A soft sigh mixes with the pitter-patter of the water as Sam lets the heat sink deep into him and wash away all the pain, uncoiling the tension in his muscles. He lets himself drift in a fog for a while. He doesn't think, just feels, and for a moment he's okay; he's taking a shower after a long day researching their latest hunt, and Dean's just hanging out on his bed cleaning his guns and watching some stupid sitcom or maybe porn. Dean's fine, Sam's fine, the whole damn world is fucking  _fine_. There's no room for the R-word in Sam's little corner of the universe right now.

_The R word..._

Like Sam can't even admit to himself what happened. Like he can't face the fact that he was... he was...

 _He's up against a wall with his arm twisted around and back, pain lancing through the joint of his left shoulder and mingling with the bruises and contusions still pulsing in time with each rapid heart beat. And oh GOD, the thing is licking his neck, It's kissing and sucking. Sam struggles but it's stronger than him, unfairly so, and he's powerless. No, no, he can't be powerless. He's got to do something. He twists his other arm, trying to wrench his way out of the death grip on his right arm but the thing hisses and his left shoulder really must be broken now, he's almost certain that the too-delicate socket is coming unhinged right this second._ Don't. I'll break both arms. Hold still,  _it tells him, moist, rancid breath ghosting over his ear and cheek. A wet, slimy tongue darts out and leaves a burning streak across the underside of his jaw. Sam twists his head away, straining to pull as far from Its reach as possible but keeps his arms where they are._ If you cooperate, I'll make it quick...

A strangled sob rang out through the shower stall, muted under the patter-pitter of the water. Sam's cupped his face in both hands, hiding it from no one, and lilted to the side. His shoulder knocked against the tiled wall and he slid down it as his knees buckled. His sobs were soft, breathy – almost like he was just trying to get his breath but couldn't stop coughing long enough to catch it. That dull ache that was becoming so familiar now shot up his spine and through his gut again as his bottom met the hard floor of the shower. He drew his knees up and folded them against his chest, tucking his arms in tight as he did so. His fingers wiped at his eyes and he willed himself to stop,  _just stop_ , but he didn't and the tears ran free despite his best efforts to force the emotion away, the damning truths fluttering through his rattled, shell-shocked mind.

“Oh,  _god_ ,” a broken whine against the flesh of his scratched and raw palms, his face still cradled in them. And when he realized that the emotions weren't cooperating and that the truth was right there, like a neon sign against a midnight-black sky, and there was no helping the constricting sobs that wracked his chest, Sam finally gave in and let the thought rush over him. The blank truth hurt worse than his body did, worse than the ripping and maiming and beating and burning he had served victim to mere hours ago, and it was so much worse when he realized that he can't wash it clean – not then, not ever.

Sam reached forward and twisted the knob of the tap as far into the red as it would go, feeling the prickling burn on his skin; but he knew it wasn't enough. It would never be enough to wipe the truth away. His body would heal, he'd stitch himself up and take the antibiotics and go as easy on his body as he could. He'd wash his clothes and the blood would wash out like all the other times they've been coated in it. But this? This stain ran too deep to clean away.

He was raped. Nothing's going to make that go away.


End file.
